


Circuit Breaker

by Teigh



Category: Bandom, Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), My Chemical Romance
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-14
Updated: 2010-09-14
Packaged: 2017-10-23 02:26:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/245265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teigh/pseuds/Teigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tommy Chow Mein: Quit my old gig to SELL, SELL, SELL!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Circuit Breaker

He's not sure if it's a good idea, being this close to the Trottle bar. Between the high probability of the joint getting busted and sheer Wavehead anarchy, there are any number of ways this shit could go wrong. But the generator out-Zone's gone cold and until he can drum up some cash to get it humming again, electrical piracy is his only option. Ray shifts around, trying to shield the flickering glow from his screen while trying to make the most of the light streaming down the stairs. The music from the bar above thrums through the steel and concrete at his back, making his fingers twitch. He doesn't have time for that shit - there's a sandside meeting he has to make tonight, and fixing this hunk of junk requires steady hands. Ray takes a deep breath, blows some grit out of the cracked case and gets to work.

Throbbing bass and drum loop samples fade to background vibrations as he puts the machine through its paces. The processor's whining high and it's putting out too much heat for Ray's liking, but at least it's running. Looks like the repair work took too - the basic programming slides through easy. Relief sings in him, clean water sweet and just as brief.

Both have to be rationed, no matter where you are in the Zones. Hard luck's shown the quickest way to get dusted is to drop your guard. Not that **that's** much of a problem - at this point he's so fucking paranoid, Ray's not sure he remembers how to relax.

Good thing too - he might have relegated the music to the mental back burner as his fingers finesse the keys, but Ray's too used to listening hard and teasing feedback snarl away from melody. The dropped beat track and fuzzout, as brief as it is, kicks up his attention. He looks up, searches the shadows by the bar's generator. There. A gleam, pale and synthetic shiny, reflects the light back from the old whiskey purification center's security spots across the road.

White suits. Damn.

Well, it was was time to roll anyway.

He doesn't hesitate, just shuts the machine down and starts coiling cord as quickly as he can. Flick of cord looping between his hands wakes sense memory; the phantom feel of a scarred guitar neck heavy as the coiled wires in his grip. Ray grits his teeth and finishing packing up. Grinding gears and nostalgia get you nowhere fast. Nowhere but dusted, anyway.  



End file.
